


Typical Morning

by Greenbits (KylyStyle)



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylyStyle/pseuds/Greenbits
Summary: Typical sunday morning for Stan as he revisits some memories





	Typical Morning

Stan doesn't forget his first taste of whiskey at the age of eight. He grimaced, but proceeds to take another gulp. He drinks to numbs, but if it gets especially bad, he drinks to forget. 

Sunday morning is for church. He hides under his covers and waves his dad off. He's sick. He can't go to church. Randy asks if he needs to see a doctor, but Stan waves him off again, explaining only with, "I feel like shit." 

"Okay, son. Your mom made pancakes downstairs, if you get hungry," and walks away leaving the door wide open. Stan peeks from under his covers and like a fly buzzing around his head, the open door taunts hims. He hears his parents and his sister leave as the front door slams and the car engine roars. _Finally_ he thinks to himself, but that relief is only temporary. The open door stays open screaming at him. He ignores it and goes back to hiding his head under the covers. 

He can hear the clock ticking and he feels overheated under the covers. He isn't really sick- not physically anyways. He just doesn't feel like being surrounded by people and listening to bullshit today. Stan isn't sure when he lost his faith, but after the fourth time, he stop trying to relocate it. Why bother doing anything meaningless? No matter how many times he finds God, enlightenment will always take it away. He thinks back to when Cartman partnered up with God and let New Zealand get sucked into the depth of hell. New Zealanders were assholes anyways. 

He pulls his bottle of five dollar whiskey from his underwear drawers. He stop hiding it in his bedside table after Randy found it on his 12th birthday. Instead of lecturing his son on the dangers of alcohol, Stan found Randy passed-out, butt naked upside down in the coat closet with the bottle of Jack Daniel's shoved up his ass. He closed the door and never mentioned Randy's relapse with alcohol to his mom; he didn't need to. She found out a year later stumbling into his wine dungeon.

Stan grimaces at the memory. His 50 year old dad had $1500 bottle of champagne handcuffed to the water pipe and a 30 year old bottle of whiskey hanging upside-down in what seem to be Japanese turtle bondage. On the left where his hockey gear use to be was an array of whips neatly arranged on the wall and on the floor was broken glass from cheap bottles of vodka. He doesn’t think about what was on the right because therapy had finally been able to suppress that memory. 

The whiskey burns as he takes several gulps before pulling it away to breathe. He doesn't grimace anymore when he drinks, but that doesn't mean he's grown accustomed to the taste. Taking one final gulp, he caps it and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. That should be enough for today.

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write words. 
> 
> Also sorry people from New Zealand


End file.
